


does anyone have the guts to shut me up?

by mozalieri



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Catholic School, Found Family, Gen, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23881624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mozalieri/pseuds/mozalieri
Summary: when he's not fighting, he looks less like a tiger and a little more like a lamb.
Relationships: Kobra Kid & Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 59





	does anyone have the guts to shut me up?

**Author's Note:**

> for kj.

the first time you meet him, he's getting his ass handed to him by a group of pent-up teenage boys who think they're hot shit even though they're all wearing the same dumbass uniform. he's putting up one hell of a fight, though, teeth bared and claws out, and he kind of reminds you of a tiger. 

a brave idiot is still an idiot, though, so you rescue his sorry ass. it's easy 'cause you're the kind of kid that parents tell their own kids to stay away from, the kind of kid that might have stabbed a guy once or sells drugs out of the back of the car he doesn't have or something. you get the assholes away from him, and you grab his wrist to yank him to his feet. 

when he's not fighting, he looks less like a tiger and a little more like a lamb. a black sheep, maybe, grimacing as he wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. his hair is kind of all over the place, but for some reason you don't think it's because of the fight. he's not wearing the same thing as the other kids were, and really, you're not even interested in why, but he starts telling you anyway. 

he moved schools or something, got into one too many fights. he stirs the pot, apparently, is a troublemaker to put it kindly, a little shit to put it honestly. 

his second day, and he's already getting jumped by the boys a grade above him. he hasn't even picked up his uniform yet, and he's already picking fights. for some reason, you're tempted to chide him 'cause he kinda sounds like you, and that isn't exactly a good thing, but you don't. 

you don't think you'll ever see him again anyway, but he seems sure of himself when he tells you that he'll see you later. you realize he didn't even thank you for saving him, but then again, maybe he didn't need to be saved.

-

if he seemed sure of himself, that's 'cause he was. less than three days later, he scares the hell out of you by basically throwing himself in front of your fucking bike. 

reckless, and stupid. you think he's goddamn crazy, and he's grinning like a madman 'cause he is. he's excited as all hell to see you again, and he's still not wearing a uniform, and you think it's either because the school has some poor old-ass lady hand making it in their dungeon or he's purposely forgetting to pick it up over and over. 

either way, his boots have enough grip on them that he can stand on the pegs of your bike, and some way or another, the two of you end up all the way downtown, sitting on a concrete wall like birds beside the world's grungiest gas station and eating frozen fruit bars. 

he can't shut up really, but you don't like to talk much, so he makes for good company. when you do talk though, he listens, and he looks at you, leans forward a little like what you have to say actually makes a difference. 

he likes your hair, you like his boots. you don't believe for a second that he's older than you, even though he is. you tell him that you'll dye his hair red one day if he wants, and he says he doesn't wanna cramp your style, but you can tell he likes the idea. 

his parents don't want him fucking up his hair though, so it'll have to wait. the only reason he's even allowed to have it long, he says, is because he can quote samson and delilah. he likes it long, though, wild and unruly. he pushes it back on one side as if it were shorter there, and he lets it hang on the other to cover the piercing he gave himself. 

you try to imagine what it'll look like red, and even if you can't come up with a very clear picture, you still think it'd look good. 

he rides the pegs of your bike all the way back home, and he doesn't even have a second thought about giving you his address. his parents would probably hate that, would probably hate you, but kids aren't their parents anyway, so it doesn't matter. 

it isn't until you're riding away that you realize you don't even know his fucking name. you whip your head around and shout back at him, ask him what it is. he tells you, you think, and you tell him yours, but those people are long gone by now. 

-

if you were a tree, you'd be a dead one.

you think roots are stupid, think that they hold people back. or at least, you like to think that you think that. if you didn't, your life would be a lot sadder, and you don't feel like being anyone's sob story. 

so roots are stupid, you don't plant them. 

you do hover above them, though, something-odd feet in the air in the treehouse his dad built for him when he was a kid. he comes up here to get away from everything, has probably fallen asleep on these wooden floors more times than he'd like to admit. 

the air is warm, but he lays in the sun anyway, stretched out like a cat in the slanted square that comes in through the carved out window in the wall. he has a tiny ass radio in the corner, one of those ones that can survive the apocalypse and runs on batteries. 

you don't know what song is blaring through the little thing, but it doesn't matter 'cause it's a good song either way. it feels like a song to listen to on a sunny day in california, a song to smoke cigarettes to in your childhood clubhouse. 

after a long drag, an exhale that sounds like a sigh, he starts talking, and you tune back in to catch it. he asks you where you're from, what you do. he wants to know how you got here, but you know as well as he does that no one knows how they got anywhere. 

and you don't feel like getting into it, either. you answer vague, hope it comes off as standoffish, but he's only fascinated. you're never going to get rid of him, you think, but the fondness with which you think about it surprises even you.

the days don't really matter to you anymore, but for some reason you know it's a saturday. maybe it's just because he came for you earlier than usual today, or maybe you caught a glimpse of the date on someone's newspaper. maybe you even asked the dude at the gas station, and maybe you're trying to be better about that kind of shit so you can make sure he's not skipping class just to hang out with you or something, but who knows, really. 

you realize you still haven't seen him in his uniform. the next time he exhales, he coughs a little, too. 

-

"i fucking hate it there," he says, and the bite in his voice lets you know that he means it. he's all curled in on himself, hunched over his own knees, his rosary dangling between them as the two of you sit on the edge of the sidewalk and smoke like delinquents. "ten hail marys. ten." 

he's heated. he picks fights with his teachers, questions things that aren't supposed to be questioned. this time, he wouldn't stop pushing how annoying it was to refer to god as a man all the time. he said something about god being a woman, something about god being a lesbian. needless to say, it went unappreciated by everyone but you. 

"everything sucks," he says, running his free hand over his hair, a nervous habit you've noticed and may have picked up, too, "the teachers suck, the students suck. my parents suck. i wish i could drop out and run away like you. i wish i didn't have to worry about this shit anymore."

he's on fire now, worked up bright and angry. you don't say anything though and just let him cool off because he needs it and it doesn't take long anyway. after a while, you can see him deflate, and when his shoulders sag, you bump one of your own against his. 

he looks at you, and you can see his frustration in his features, in his eyebrows, but the little smile on his lips is genuine and appreciative. 

he's older than you, you don't know why you're treating him like your kid brother, but you are anyway. maybe there's something childlike about his eyes, the way he smiles with all those little teeth and acts like you're the coolest goddamn motherfucker out there. 

you don't really want to tell him that this isn't all it's cracked up to be, that you'd give dyeing your hair and being an asshole if it meant having a family again. you don't wanna say that he doesn't know how lucky he is, and that's not fair to him either. suffering is suffering, and he's a punk just like you are. no one ever gets lucky, except maybe you, but that's only 'cause you found him, and he found you, too. 

maybe roots aren't so bad. 

"you look dumb as hell," you say, and he laughs, he agrees. he fucking hates that uniform. you never want anything to happen to him. 

-

the world ends anyway though because you never get what you want. it's weird to think that it's real though, that the world could really end and just leave you behind. what's even weirder is that all you can think about is him, where he is, if he's alive. 

it's stupid, maybe even a little selfish. it would be more cruel for him to have survived, for him to be alive somewhere feeling the same way you do right now. 

you go looking for him though, because you're hopeless, and he means the world to you. 

god is either incredibly kind or incredibly cruel, but you're thankful for either when you find him despite it all, coughing up dust and looking like hell. the expression on his face lets you know that he was looking for you, too, and you try your best not to think about all the bad things that could have happened. 

when you pull him from the ashes, he's stumbling a little, like a baby deer. 

he looks at you, and his face is mortified. his eyes are filled to the brim with tears, and if you hug him, he'll shatter, but you can't not hold him. you're all he has left, he's all you have left. you hold him so tight, hold him like you can keep him together. his hands are clutching the back of your shirt, and you can imagine the way they look, knuckles white with the force in which he holds you, painted nails digging into fabric. 

he's crying, and you realize that you're crying, too. you're so glad he's alive, but you wish he were dead. 

he's here, though. he's here, and you're going to protect him. losing everything isn't new to you, no, but you have something you want to keep now. you might be crushing him in your grasp, but he doesn't notice or just doesn't care. 

you love him, you realize. you love him like a best friend, love him like a brother. if anyone ever hurt him, you'd kill them, you think, and the thought is so heavy that your whole chest aches, but it's true. he holds you, and you hold him, and you can't think of a single thing that hurts more than the fact that someday someone is going to try to take him away from you. 

-

rosaries are lighter than you expected them to be. 

when he carried that thing around his neck, it always seemed to be weighing him down. you thought it had to be made of lead or something, but that's much too simple. 

when he finds them, they're already dead, and even if he swore up and down that he hated them, you know he never meant it. the last thing you want to do is watch someone cry and try to dig through rubble to drag their parents' dead bodies from it, so you don't let him. it'd only make him feel worse anyway, and you'd rather him resent you for an hour than spend it cutting up his hands and sobbing over cooled bodies and dried blood. 

he punches a wall, and he screams, and he looks like that tiger again, but you know he's a lamb. even when he's stopped yelling, he's still seething, not ash but embers. 

he gives you his rosary, not as a gift but like a curse. he rips it from his neck, and he shoves it in your arms, and he tells you to fucking take it because he doesn't want it anymore. god isn't real, he says, and again, you know he doesn't mean that. you know he doesn't believe that for a second because he's giving you his rosary. he knows you'll take care of it, he knows you'll keep it safe. he knows that you know that he loves that thing, that he loves god and he's just speaking out of a broken heart. when he's better, he'll want it back, and he wants you to take care of it before he does something he regrets like bust the string and send the beads flying everywhere. 

he's all bite right now though, curling in on himself and pulling his own hair, a forest fire. 

you let him cool down further, and when you finally hold him, he crumbles. he's still warm when you kiss his head, and his rosary in your pocket feels both like nothing and as though it's burning a hole there, too. you'll give it back when he feels better, but for now, you just hold him.

he tells you that you're all he has left. you already knew that, but the words are heavier now with the knowledge that in this moment, he thinks even god has abandoned him. 

how lonely that must be. you hold him so much closer, and if you realize that the ache he's feeling now is the same one you felt before the two of you met, you don't say it. 

-

"what do you think about party poison?" he asks, then winces like you're burning the hell out of him, and you might be. his hair is getting pretty blonde though, and you think the red will take. you still can't picture it in your head, but you think the same thing as before anyway.

"alliteration," you say. 

"so we can match," he says, before leaning his head far back, meeting your eyes upside down. he moves so much, you're almost tempted to bleach his goddamn eyebrows, but his grin travels all the way up to his doe eyes, his rosary is clasped in one hand out of the way, and you can't not be endeared.

"i like it," you say, then urge him to look straight ahead again, "makes you sound like a buzzkill." 

he laughs. that's what he was going for. you bleach your own hair too while you're at it, and if it doesn't burn you as much, that's only 'cause you're used to it. 

the red takes as well to him as you thought it would. he says he likes it 'cause red is the color of irritation, but you like it 'cause it makes him look as fiery as he is. he wants you to shave his head too, not all of it but some, and you think it might be the first time anyone has ever trusted you with a blade that close to their neck. 

when you're done, he asks you if you're gonna do anything else with your hair, if you're gonna dye yours too, but honestly, you like the way the blonde looks, so you don't fuck with it anymore. 

you think red is more of a poison color anyway. 

after that, he starts wearing his rosary around his wrist instead of his neck. you wonder if it's because he doesn't want the dye to rub off onto the beads, or if his rosary is just lighter to carry that way. maybe he's worried that one day it'll choke him, and when you think about it, you're kinda worried about that, too. 

-

if the trans-am is an eyesore, that's because the two of you painted it yourselves. it was a real piece of shit before, and it's still kinda a piece of shit now, but it's all decked the hell out, the radio works, and that's what matters. 

you think of the name killjoy, and he likes it. it's like buzzkill, he says, but it's got a nicer ring to it. the way he says that makes it sound like he can already see the wanted posters with your faces on them, and you laugh despite yourself. 

he paints a big ass spider on the hood of the car, and that's when it's real. that's when you're really you, and he's really him, and there's an unspoken promise between the two of you that this is where your lives start: 

in the desert at the end of the world, under a polluted, starless sky, lying side by side in the dirt because you wanted to lay next to each other and the hood of the car is still wet. awake, unafraid, you've got your hand in his, his rosary is still taut around his wrist, and neither of you are heroes, but for some reason you're comforted by the idea that even if you were, you'd still be able to come back to this, come back to him. 

this is yours, and no one can take that away from you. 

"i love you." you tell him, and even though it's the first time you've ever said it out loud, without hesitating at all, he tells you that he loves you, too. 

-

in the end, no one ever gets what they want, and even if you're lucky and do, eventually it gets taken away.

he sits on the chipped paint on the hood of the car, cigarette hanging out of his mouth as the traffic report makes itself audible through static. the next time he exhales, the smoke teeters, shaky like his breath. his friend, your friend, tries to put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off. he doesn't want to be comforted, knows that his eyes are stinging with tears and if someone holds him, he'll shatter into a million pieces. 

his friend doesn't know him like you do, though; no one knows him like you do. no one else knows that they can hold him so tight, can squeeze with unyielding arms so that he can shatter without falling apart. no one else knows how to hold his rosary for him, how to kiss the top of his head and see a lamb instead of a tiger.

no one is there to hold him, and he's inconsolable, but he'll be alright. there's nothing for anyone out in the wastes anyway, and as soon as he stops crying, he'll be glad that you're dead.


End file.
